


Lock And Load

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Series: Adult Education [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Angst, Bingo, Gay Bar, Homosexuality, Jamms!Verse, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Teenlock, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, sexual awakening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 08:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2341553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost 15 year old Sherlock is desperate enough to see a band play, that he's willing to ask Mycroft and his flatmate Christopher to sneak him into the club to see Lock And Load, because the singer is ... 18 and amazing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lock And Load

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the Adult Education JAMMSVerse. It's stand alone enough that I think you'll like it. It does refer to things from "You Teach Me, I'll Teach You" (Johnlock) and "I'm Not Looking For Another Mistake" (Mystrade).
> 
> a gabillion thanks to 221btls for putting aside her amazing fic to beta this. Any 1989/90 mistakes are mine and not hers.
> 
> This is for LET'S WRITE SHERLOCK BINGO, Card 4/row 2.  
> TROPE: Teenlock.

“The Bearded Faverolles is an absurd name for a nightclub,” Sherlock thought out loud as he, Mycroft and Christopher navigated the congested pavement from the Highbury-Islington tube station to the club.

"And why exactly are we at a club on a Wednesday night when we _all_ have classes tomorrow?" Christopher asked, eyeing the queue stretched down the pavement waiting for the doors to open. The Bearded Favrolles sat around the corner from the Hen and Chickens, a theater comedy club on Highbury Corner, and the patrons for both clogged the walkway.

“I told you. Lock And Load is amazing. The lead singer is talented, although the rest of the band is mediocre…” The longer Sherlock lectured Mycroft and his flatmate about the local group playing that night, the more animated his gestures grew. Even Christopher’s rapid-fire sneezes didn’t deter him. Mycroft handed over a pressed handkerchief, which Christopher readily accepted.

Mycroft didn’t see the appeal to this band. He’d heard them, had a demo copy of their one CD, and agreed with Sherlock’s assessment. Lead singer excellent. Rest completely forgettable. He had no idea why this band was Sherlock’s Obsession of the Month.

Hard-pressed to deny his brother anything, Mycroft and his flatmate had agreed to sneak the very-underage Sherlock into the small club, but not before making him grovel. Sherlock'd begged and pleaded, even bartered, offering to keep all of Mycroft's secrets up til that point _actually_ secret. Mycroft relented with huffs and sighs and mumbled phrases like _at great personal sacrifice_ , but truthfully he was happy to go out to a club that he and Christopher frequented. Sherlock, still wary of this sudden bout of goodwill bestowed upon him, expounded on the merits of the lead singer’s voice, his electric movements on stage, his _je ne sais quoi_.

Mycroft observed his brother, who walked to the queue a few paces ahead with Christopher, the two deep in conversation about tonight's band. Dressed in a white t-shirt several sizes too small, Sherlock cared so little about his clothing it was likely one of the ones Mummy had sent him off with for his first year at Harrow. Obscenely tight jeans from his arse to ankle and bulky Doc Marten low lace boots gave him the illusion he was taller than his 5'10. Where the hell did he even get those ridiculous pants and shoes; certainly they didn’t come from Mummy or the nanny.

The problem was that instead of Sherlock looking ridiculous, Mycroft objectively knew he was extremely attractive. The tumble of dark curls over his pale complexion, the razor sharp cheekbones angling to his Cupid’s bow lip—But it was his eyes that were the most arresting—the indescribable color of the Caribbean Sea. Men would get lost in those eyes. And dressed in those clothes like a second skin, he looked more the experienced club crawler than a public school student. Mycroft understood that the men in the club would approach Sherlock more times than he could step in to stop. Not that Sherlock would recognize any of the flirting or sexual propositions for what they were. Tonight his focus would be on the music and not what the men in the bar would be offering or looking for.

“Yes, Sherlock, it's a ridiculous name for a club," Mycroft agreed, on the verge of losing his temper with his almost 15 year old brother. He already regretted agreeing to break the law. "And Lock And Load is a fitting name for a band.”

Christopher laughed at Mycroft’s short fuse. He spent little time around Sherlock and could afford to be patient. “Sherlock. What is a Faverolles?" Christopher asked, leading him through the steps.

Although it was early fall, dusk had long since passed and the street lamps lit the pavement in pools of yellow light that illuminated the two most beautiful people Mycroft had ever loved.

“A French breed of chicken developed in the 1860s in north-central France, in the vicinity of the village of Faverolles. They’re known for their muff and heavy beard and¬--"

“Enough,” Christopher put his hand up to stop Sherlock’s recitation, after all the years still shocked at how easily the brothers called up information read only once. “You sound like the Encyclopedia Britannica. So a Bearded Faverolles would be a¬--" he drifted his hand sideways, encouraging Sherlock to the logical answer.

“A hen, a cockerel, a cock, a¬--" Sherlock stopped short, eyes wide. “A bearded cock? Is it a¬--" He looked at the queue, staring at the club’s patrons--¬tall, short, fashionable, torn and tattered, but all definitely male. "A club for homosexual men?" Sherlock's jaw dropped in shock; he didn't know any gay men. Well, logically he probably did but...

Mycroft and Christopher didn’t bother to hide their laughter. "Couldn't you deduce that from the evidence Sherlock?"

Sherlock compiled the evidence, what he knew about homosexuality. But he was drawn to Mycroft and his flatmate as they greeted other patrons as old friends. As they stood close to each other, shoulders grazing, smallest fingers entwined. He processed that, filing it away.

The queue shuffled closer to the door where the bouncer barely glanced at ID's. Mycroft warned Sherlock, “You look 18 but you must behave as such. Keep your mouth closed. Keep your hands to yourself. Keep your eyes off others. It will not do for you to draw attention this evening. Mummy will throttle me if she finds out we snuck you into the club." His voice stern, Mycroft tried to make eye contact with Sherlock so he would realize the gravity of the situation, but he couldn’t find his brother’s eyes under the curls his too-long fringe had become.

Christopher sneezed loudly and Mycroft, still searching for eye contact, handed over the handkerchief with practiced precision.

“You keep sneezing," Sherlock said, drawing Mycroft's focus away from himself. He added to the data he’d collected since they’d arrived at Harrow earlier that evening to gather Sherlock. Sneezes. Congestion. Appalling blowing of the nose. "Obviously you have a cold. Why are you out rather than home attempting to recover?" An accusation rather than a question.

"First, because we bloody well promised you we'd take you, didn't we? And not that it matters, but I can't shake this cold. Had it for weeks, and I can't afford to sit around. The University doesn’t grant sick days.” He blew his nose in Mycroft’s monogrammed handkerchief to punctuate his comment.

Sherlock refocused on Christopher as a person, rather than as pure data. He did not look well. His blond hair hung instead of being styled. Dark circles hung heavily under his eyes. His cheeks lacked all color and his eyes looked dull and tired. Sherlock had known Christopher for almost 5 years, since he’d transferred from Harrow’s international school in Hong Kong and become Mycroft’s 6th form roommate. He had never looked this ill. Not even when he and Mycroft had their monumental row after Christopher returned from his summer visiting his family living in China.

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” he said, cringing under the scrutiny. “Let's go listen to this band you keep raving about.”

They flanked Sherlock past the bouncer—who took no special notice of Sherlock's age.

"Hey, Curly,” the bouncer's voice boomed as Sherlock walked into the bar. Against Mycroft’s explicit rules, Sherlock turned and stared. Big, maybe 200 pounds, all muscles. Sleeveless white shirt with the club’s logo on the front, too tight in order to show off his abdominal muscles. Biceps the size of a small nation. "I'm working the door all night. Come by if you get tired of your skinny mates."

Mycroft laughed his sweet, deep laugh and informed the well-intentioned gentleman that Sherlock was, indeed, with them and would remain as such.

The bouncer stood up from his barstool at the door and winked as Sherlock looked over his shoulder one last time.

“That—that man winked at me.” Aghast, Sherlock didn’t bother to lower his voice.

“Yes Sherlock,” Mycroft bit his lips so he wouldn’t laugh at his naïve brother. Was this really his first experience with sexuality? Surely a few young men at Harrow found Sherlock more than interesting? “The bouncer found you...attractive.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He stared at the men around him as Mycroft ordered two bottles of Adnams Jack Brand and a Coke in a highball glass with a wedge of lime. He handed a beer to Christopher and said to Sherlock, “Take this Coke and leave the lime on the rim of the glass. If anyone asks, it’s a Cuba Libre.”

Sherlock pushed his fringe off his forehead, grabbed his drink, and headed toward the stage as the band members filtered on, plugging in equipment and checking their instruments. Mycroft and Christopher remained at the bar, leaning against it and talking to their friends.

He wouldn’t leave his place pushed against the stage, but Sherlock turned to watch the men dancing together in the small opening. The dim lights, the music so loud it reverberated in his bones, the heat of the bodies forced together in the small club. He could feel it on the nape of his neck, the small of his back. Sweat seeped through his shirt, clinging to his shoulders and belly. But more than all of that input, he felt the slide of one man against another as they danced, the touch of their chests, the press of their groins thrusting in time with the music.

Embarrassed, Sherlock forced his gaze from those on the dance floor. His cock was already half hard, pushing uncomfortably against his fly. He had no idea why he found this erotic, watching these men dance, but if he didn’t stop staring, he’d be in an awkward situation, especially stuck against the stage.

Instead, he looked for Mycroft and Christopher because what could be more anti-erotic than those two? They weren’t at the bar. Wait. Was that them? Kissing? No. Not kissing. Snogging! Pressed every bit as close together as the dancers.

Mycroft slipped his hands from the back of Christopher’s neck and cradled his cheeks. He adored Christopher. It was obvious even to Sherlock. The way his thumb stroked Christopher’s cheek. The small kiss that brushed his lips. Their foreheads touching, looking in each other’s eyes. Christopher turned and reached for Mycroft’s hand and led him to the loo.

Sherlock slotted the final pieces of the puzzle together. They were together. In love. His brain stopped, jammed up on the word.

“Wanna dance?” someone asked from behind Sherlock, warm breath tickling his ear. Too startled to speak, Sherlock shook his head more emphatically than he intended and knocked into the speaker’s cheek. “Fuck, mate, if you didn’t want to, you didn’t have to hit me. Arsehole.”

Sherlock trembled, unsure what had happened to the man and to Mycroft and Christopher and what to do about either. The band members answered that question before he could decide.

“Ya ready to rock?” the lead singer screamed into the microphone as the drummer banged out the staccato beats to start their first song. He turned to his bandmates and yelled, “Lock And Load!”

 

_Follow me, don’t follow me,_  
 _I’ve got my spine, I’ve got my orange crush_

  
The band moved through their playlist, only stopping long enough for the singer to name the next song. Sherlock catalogued and stored everything about the concert. Four members: the lead singer/guitarist. Decent bass guitar. Drummer had trouble keeping time. Electric keyboard player was useless; most of the music was prerecorded and stored in the keyboard’s memory. Obviously, the singer led the band, was it his?

The eclectic mix featured covers of alternative music and some of the new Grunge from the States. A few originals, likely written by the singer. They’d chosen so that each member had the opportunity to be the focus, but the best songs featured the singer who roamed the stage, mugged with his bandmates, sang to people in the crowd. He loved this, being center stage, performing. He radiated joy in both his face and body—bouncing, dancing, moving. He drew all eyes to him, but it was more than charisma. He was beautiful and dangerous, like a stalking panther. Muscles and sweat, and compact lean lines.

Before the final song, he introduced each band member and said, “And I’m Jonza. That’s right. Jonza Bad Boy.” He laughed as they launched into their final song. Sherlock hoped they’d choose an original piece, grimacing when he recognized it from the radio.

_If you see a faded sign at the side of the road that says_  
 _“15 miles to the Love Shack”_

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes; this was so beneath this band. But then Jonza placed his guitar on its stand and slithered to the apron of the stage to sing to the men pressed there.

 

_Huggin’ and a-kissin’_  
 _Dancin’ and a-lovin’_

 

Sherlock stared, his mouth open. Tried to breathe. Forgot how.

Jonza moved closer, almost face to face with Sherlock. He smelled of smoke and sweat and some kind of citrusy-lavender. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes and sang:

 

_Wearin’ next to nothin’_  
 _Cause it’s hot as an oven._

 

Sherlock was vaguely aware he was supposed to be doing something. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t form thoughts. Breathe. Sherlock gasped, and that made Jonza laugh and wink.

There was more to the song. There had to be more. But nothing beyond that registered for Sherlock, filing away every smell and sensation in his Mind Palace room labelled Lock And Load. But he’d taken a fat, black marker and X’d out the band’s name and scrawled _ **Jonza**_ underneath it.

“G’night everybody! And remember to Lock And Load!” Jonza jumped up and shook his fists in victory, flinging sweat out into the crowd pressed against the stage.

Sherlock’s eyes followed the droplets, and when sweat landed on his arms, he needed to categorize its data. He raised his wrist to his mouth to taste: patchouli and yes, lavender and citrus. Plain, old _Brut_ cologne. Jonza wears _Brut_. He closed his eyes and recalled Jonza singing to him, how he couldn’t breathe or think. His cock twitched again at the memories.

He’d been to concerts before. Even snuck in because he was underage or had no money. But he’d never felt like this. Racing pulse. Heavy heartbeats. Thickening cock. The unquenchable need to know more. He looked around to identify any other elements he could file away, but the stage was empty and the dance music resumed. Sherlock needed more data.

He whirled around at the hand on his shoulder, ready to throw a punch if he needed to. Christopher backed away, both hands raised in surrender. “We gotta go. Mycroft and I have early classes tomorrow.” He looked more closely at Sherlock in the dim light, “Alright, mate? You look a little spooked.”

“I’m uh, I just want to do one thing before we leave, though.” Something about Sherlock’s face, his demeanor, unsettled Christopher. He nodded, and Sherlock searched behind the stage for the band. Gone. Checked the alley. Empty. Re-entering the building, he almost knocked into a small man, cap pulled down, bent over to pick up something from the floor. Possibly a staff member, custodian?

Sherlock brushed past him, focused on scanning the room for the singer. “Are you okay?” the diminutive young man asked. Barely more than a boy, Sherlock thought. Quiet. Unprepossessing.

“Yes, I’m looking for someone,” Sherlock said, scrutinizing the man’s face. He couldn’t place it. Should know it. “We’ve met before, but I can’t place where.” He flipped through every face in his memory.

“I’m John Watson,” the man said, extending his right hand. “We have met once before.” He leaned in closer to Sherlock and sang,

_Wearin’ next to nothin’_  
 _‘Cause it’s hot as an oven_

“You breathing better now?” His smile enlivened his face, and there. The flash of charisma that had been missing. There, in that smile. His Jonza. Another easy smile as he reached down to grab the handle of something. “I think just once. Tonight.”

Sherlock stopped staring. _Tried_ to stop staring as he shook John Watson’s hand. “I’m Sherlock.”

“One name? Like Cher or Tiffany?” He laughed as Sherlock blushed. A kind laugh. Not the way people usually laughed at him, making fun and timing how long it would take him to realize.

“I’m Holmes, Sherlock Holmes,” he stuttered, unable to say more. He stared, jaw moving, words not coming, until the dam broke. “Your clothes say older, but your eyes don’t lie. You’re not almost 30. You’re likely not even 20. Not a smoker. No rasp in your voice; it’s too important to you to risk screwing it up. You tolerate your bandmates because you think you need them. You don’t. Harry. Him you care about.” Sherlock picked up John’s right wrist to examine the name scrawled there. “But it’s not a tattoo. It’s marker. Perhaps you don’t care as much as you wish you could.”

“That was ¬amazing.” John’s smile grew wider with each of the observations. “You’re right. I’m 18. Left school before A-levels. Didn’t want to, but I had to go to work. I don’t smoke because my voice is my ticket out of this life, to earn enough money to go to Uni. I want to be a teacher. How did you know all of that about me?”

Sherlock shook off the question, certain John was taking the piss.

“Come on. At least explain how you figured out about the band and Harry.” John wanted to be aloof, but couldn’t keep the awe from creeping in.

“It’s obvious,” Sherlock dismissed the request and turned around looking for Christopher and Mycroft, knowing they’d be furious with him. But John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s wrist.

“It’s not obvious to me.” John looked into Sherlock’s eyes, holding steady, letting Sherlock see his sincerity. “Please.”

“If you liked your bandmates, you’d be with them celebrating a successful show, not here alone. But Harry. That’s interesting. You care enough to have a visual reminder, but not enough to make the temporary one permanent. So, possibly a bandmate, more likely a boyfriend. At least you’re realistic enough to know that relationships at 18 are rarely permanent enough for a proper tattoo.”

John had watched Sherlock’s face during the deductions. Alive, proud, showing off. Until he got to John’s “boyfriend” Harry. Then he slowed and frowned.

“That was amazing.” John nodded, to all that Sherlock had deduced.  
Sherlock stared, not adept enough at social cues to know if he were being teased. “Do you think so?”

“Extraordinary,” John smiled at Sherlock’s uncertainty and reached out to touch his arm to affirm his words. “It was quite extraordinary.”

Pleased. Sherlock preened, which made his heart rat-a-tat. Curious. His deductions didn’t usually affect his heart. And make him smile like a fool. And make him want to smell the Brut for himself.

“Except Harry. Not my boyfriend. My sister,” John explained. “It’s short for Harriet. She was the first one to support me, who knew how important it was for me to sing.

“Your sister,” Sherlock threw his hands up in despair, upset with his mistake.  
“There’s always something. I was nearly perfect though.”

From behind Sherlock, someone cleared his throat. “There’s a frowning, posh berk behind me, isn’t there?” Sherlock asked John with a theatrical sigh and matching eye roll.

“Yes, and a posh blond,” John stage-whispered, “Smirking, but affectionately if that’s possible.”

“Quite possible, Mr. Watson,” Mycroft said, by way of introduction. “I see you have met my much-younger brother.” The implied threat¬— _back off_ —rang through clearly.

“Mr. Holmes, I assume? Sherlock’s much-older brother?” John countered, amused instead of afraid.

“We need to catch the train, to take you back to _Harrow_.” Mycroft made the next move, emphasizing the name of the school to reinforce their social standing and Sherlock’s age.

John opened his mouth to checkmate, only to be cut off by Christopher, who’d taken a step closer to Sherlock. “Look, mate. Back off. The kid is 14. Find a boyfriend your own age.”

“I’m not actually gay, if anyone cares," John laughed, high from the performance and not about to let two wealthy, overprotective men bother him. He picked up the handle of the guitar case in his left hand and stuck out his right toward Sherlock. "Bye Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. Maybe I'll see you around."

Sherlock was furious, humiliated by Mycroft and Christopher and really, really unhappy that this man was leaving when he wanted his brother to leave and John to stay. Forever. And maybe dance. With him. The way the blokes in the club had danced. And you know touch him the way Mycroft touched Christopher and...

"I’m not gay either," Sherlock blurted, grabbing for John’s elbow but missing it, dragging his hand along the hard body guitar case. “Doyouwanttodance?” Which really meant, please don’t go.

"Uhh, that doesn't seem wise," John’s smile faltered as he glanced beyond Sherlock to his protectors¬: the blond’s arms crossed over his chest, the ginger brother frowning and staring at his watch. “Besides, you have to get the train. Maybe we’ll play at Harrow. I’ll look into it.” He smiled at Sherlock, and patted the back pockets of his jeans hoping for at least a pen to give Sherlock his phone number. No luck.

“Absolutely,” Mycroft said over the subtext that said _don’t even bother trying_. “If I can be of any assistance, do not hesitate to contact me.”

John pushed open the back door with his foot, his trainer leaving a waffle pattern in the greasy film on the kick plate. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at Sherlock before leaving.

“How could you?” Sherlock whirled around, advancing. “Who asked you to be my body guards?”

Mycroft didn’t bother to answer that question. Dodging Sherlock smoothly, he opened the back door for Christopher and Sherlock. “I do believe we can just make the 12:05 train, if we don’t tarry,” Mycroft said as Christopher left.

Sherlock fumed as Mycroft held the door open. He didn’t have to go with them, even though they had his Travelcard. He could walk the 12 miles back to school. It would take only…

“You’re not walking. Come with us.” Mycroft didn’t insist. He asked. “Please.”

With a deep sigh, Sherlock walked out of the club to join them on the pavement.

“Don’t bother telling me you didn’t like the band,” Sherlock said as he walked past his brother, who now openly held hands with Christopher. “I know you were in the loo. Together.” That would teach Mycroft to think he could boss Sherlock.

“Someday, Sherlock,” Christopher said to the back of Sherlock’s head, his voice filled with affection as he stared at Mycroft, “You’ll find an amazing someone, and you’ll want to go to the loo together, too.”

Sherlock shook his head, his curls twisting with the effort. “Not I. Caring is not an advantage,” he said, even though he knew he’d already found someone amazing.

And let him walk away.

**Author's Note:**

> the two songs that Lock And Load cover are   
> "Orange Crush" by REM https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mSmOcmk7uQ  
> AND
> 
> "Love Shack" by The B52s https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SOryJvTAGs


End file.
